


No Warning

by tiredRobin



Category: Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Cartoon 2018)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Autistic Character(s), Autistic Donatello (TMNT), Autistic Michelangelo (TMNT), Blood and Injury, Family Bonding, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Light Angst, POV Multiple, They Are All Have ADHD, all the things, no t/cest please n thank u
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27200066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredRobin/pseuds/tiredRobin
Summary: In which there are consequences following the events of Many Unhappy Returns.Injured, exhausted, and triumphant, a worn-out family limps their way home. It takes a little longer than it otherwise should have for them to realize that one within the party is more injured than initially believed.
Relationships: Donatello & Leonardo & Michelangelo & April O'Neil & Raphael (TMNT), Donatello & Leonardo & Michelangelo & Raphael (TMNT)
Comments: 101
Kudos: 208





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi! ~~i dunno if i'll finish this. it's not supposed to be long—maybe four or five chapters at most, depending.~~ i don't know if this is whump? i'm just here to be self-indulgent, really. that's all i wanna do. is write whatever.
> 
> edit: i'm definitely finishing this. it's also likely going to be a bit longer than four or five chapters, but i can't say with certainty exactly how many.  
> edit 2: for anyone expecting something purely donnie-centric... er. there's a lot of focus on the fact that he's injured, but i also spend like an extensive amount of time just feeling out the other character's mental states in all this. so? it... _is_ donnie-centric, just not... what i had intended to write initially. "i'm just here to be self-indulgent" still holds true.
> 
> there's no graphic descriptions of the injury sustained, but i've chosen a T rating just in case because i do discuss like.... a fair amount of blood. and people swear, so there's that.

There is no warning. Just a quiet, “Oh,” from Donatello that Leonardo nearly misses under the sound of flesh sliding and tapping against metal, followed by a short cry of alarm from Michelangelo.

Leonardo’s reaction time is… diminished, to say the least. He cranes his neck to peer down the ladder, concern muffled beneath a blanket of exhaustion, just in time to see that Donnie is falling.

Exhaustion forgotten in favor of a hot, sharp panic bursting like a firework in his chest, Leonardo nearly loses his grip on the sewer ladder. “Don!” someone—maybe Raphael—shouts. Leonardo’s a heartbeat away from propelling him off the wall—can see from the corner of his eye Mikey reaching for his kusari-fundo—but the ground is closer than it looks. No one has time to react.

With a sudden, sharp twist in the air, Donnie barely manages to right himself in time to greet the ground with his feet. The impact sends him stumbling, but he does not fall, and that in itself is immediately relieving. That he slumps heavily against the side of the sewer wall in the next moment is a little less so, and it takes much of Leonardo’s willpower not to try and bounce his own way down the remainder of the shaft.

Fortunately, Leonardo doesn’t need to wait long to reach the bottom; everyone scrambles down the last few meters with a newfound energy. A few voices call out in concern, but no response follows; just a hand jutting out in a thumbs up. Mikey, being the closest and the first to see Donnie drop, is at Donnie’s side quicker than everyone else. “Donnie!” he exclaims, one hand reaching out to grip Donnie’s arm.

Donnie is in the process of pushing himself off the sewer wall right as the others catch up—Raph and April at the front, Leonardo and Splinter bringing up the rear—standing more solidly upright. “I’m fine, Mikey,” he reassures. He sounds a bit breathless. Rattled, maybe.

“Like heck you are!” April bursts, pushing past Raph and then Mikey to get in Donnie’s face. Donnie winces—at the unexpected proximity or her volume, Leonardo isn’t sure—and April gets the message well enough, backing off a step. Her voice isn’t much quieter than before, however. “You just fell off the ladder! That doesn’t seem fine to me!”

“What happened, Purple?” Splinter asks, using his tail to gently nudge Mikey aside and then filling in the spot it leaves open. Leonardo purses his lips as the space around Donnie gets smaller, but he doesn’t say anything.

Donnie looks down at his hands. “Adrenaline drop,” he says.

“Huh?” Mikey asks.

Donnie lifts his hands high enough for everyone to see, and even from his position furthest back, Leonardo can see the tremor running through them. “Overexcited hypothalamus produces adrenaline for an energy boost when the amygdala perceives danger, to put it simply,” he says. He doesn’t wait for them to stare at him blankly like he might otherwise do; he just continues, this time ticking his fingers like items off a list. “Rapid sugar breakdown, faster breathing and heart rate, excessive sweating, increased blood flow in major muscle groups, et cetera. We’ve all been running primarily on a lot of adrenaline and little sleep, food, and water. We’re dehydrated, low on sugars, and likely about to experience the sorest muscles of our lives.”

Leonardo looks down at his own hands. He’s vaguely surprised to find that they’re trembling, albeit not as visibly as Donnie’s.

“I lost my grip,” Donnie finishes, a bit lamely. His hands fall to his sides.

Leonardo looks back up. Looks at Donnie, and takes a moment to really _look_ at him.

Donnie is pale and exhausted. The same can be said for all of them, certainly, but Donnie seems a little worse for wear even compared to April, who doesn’t have a lifetime of ninja training to back up just how much she threw her weight around against Shredder (not that he expected any less from her). Donnie’s standing on his own but he looks unsteady on his feet, and something about the way he holds himself is… off. Leonardo isn’t sure what to make of it. And his shell…

Leonardo squints against the shadow of the sewers, confused by what he’s looking at. One of the battle shell’s shoulder straps is angled oddly. His eyes widen in slow realization as what he’s seeing finally registers.

Jagged panels of metal protrude outward from Donnie’s back, curled and torn as thought ripped away by some great force. Donnie shifts to the side, brushing off another worried touch from Mikey, and as he does so more of the battle shell reveals itself to Leonardo. He inhales sharply.

It’s a mess of ripped reinforced alloy and shredded mechanical insides, some of which spill out from three large gouges—two of which rip entirely through the rim of the shell just above Donnie’s shoulder—and one shorter one, all rented deep into the shell’s surface. The hinge that swung out the rotors of his battle shell is lopsided and dislodged, the rotors themselves seemingly violently removed. He can’t tell from the shadows just how deep they penetrate.

Leonardo swallows thickly. Did… did the Shredder do that? What with the chaos having followed so quickly after his return, he hadn’t had much time to observe the state of his siblings. He remembers seeing exhaustion, and urgency, and even some fear. And then Shredder had reappeared, and things had gone very, very quickly after that.

Still, Leonardo wonders how he ever managed to miss this.

“Your shell,” Splinter says, the alarm in his voice pulling Leonardo out of his thoughts. He must have only just noticed as well.

It’s only because he’s watching him so closely that Leonardo spots the way Donnie’s face twitches with something startlingly close to panic. It’s gone in the next second, quick enough that Leonardo wonders if he had only imagined it, and Donnie turns to their father instead with an expression of exhausted acknowledgement. “Oh no, don’t tell me,” he deadpans, brows drawn flat, “it’s ruined.”

“Ruined!” Splinter exclaims, sounding nearly affronted. “It is scrap metal on your back!”

A glance at the other three reveals that the state of Donnie’s battle shell comes to no surprise to any of them. Raph catches Leonardo looking and offers a tired frown, worry evident in the downturn of his lips.

“I am aware.”

“You are aw—then what are you wearing it for!? Take it off!”

“If it’s all the same to you, dear father; no. I'm not about to cut up my arms carrying this heap back home—and, yes, it is coming home, because I need to see if there is anything I can salvage from it.” Splinter begins to protest, but Donnie only carries on over his spluttering like he doesn’t even notice it. “I thank you for your concern, dad, truly, but might I suggest we all limp our victorious selves home and _then_ you can worry about our various injuries? Hm? Just an idea.” He makes a pointed gesture to the group as a whole.

Splinter falters. He glances over the others, and Leonardo knows that he sees the same as himself; a group of exhausted, injured teenagers, all ready to collapse. Donnie has that stubborn, I-won’t-compromise-with-anything-you-say expression on his face when Splinter looks back at him. 

Of the lot of them, Splinter and Donnie tend to clash the most. Neither of them like to be told no—not that any of them do, but Splinter and Donnie are the worst about it—and although Leonardo doubts either party has the energy to disagree about anything right now, sometimes the hint of a challenge is all it takes for tempers to rise. Sensing the potential for an argument, he opts to speak up. “Let’s go home, dad.”

Splinter looks back at him. Leonardo quirks a smile at him. With a sigh, Splinter nods. “You are right. Apologies, Purple. You are sure that you are okay? No more falling?”

Donnie’s expression softens. “No more falling,” he promises.

“Good.” Splinter nods decisively, then turns to the others. “Let us go, my children. Home is not too far. Another forty minutes at most, perhaps.”

April and Mikey both groan dramatically, slumping heavily against one another, and Leonardo chuckles lightly at their theatrics. 

Donnie rolls his eyes and gestures grandly down the sewer tunnel like that of an usher, muttering a tired, “After you,” and the procession starts up once again.

Leonardo hangs back as everyone passes Donnie by. A movement from Mikey, who is walking beside Raph; he glances over his shoulder, first at Leonardo—their eyes meet—and then his gaze flickers pointedly to Donnie. Leonardo smirks and nods once; _already on it, baby bro,_ he thinks, and Mikey seems to get it, nodding back in response. He turns away.

Leonardo’s not the only one still worried, then. It’s reassuring even as it is disquieting; Donnie’s the overthinker of the family, but Leonardo has his own spiraling thoughts to contend with and sometimes he sees problems that aren’t actually there. If Mikey’s worried, there’s probably something to be worried about.

Or some _one,_ in this case. Donnie looks up at him when Leonardo doesn’t move to walk ahead of him, and Leonardo only inclines his head towards the receding backs of the group. No words are needed—Donnie rolls his eyes again and turns to follow the others, and he makes no comment when Leonardo falls into step beside him.

-

The walk home is a quiet affair. No one has it in them to chatter much, although Mikey occasionally pipes up with whatever thought pops into his head, spawning a brief back-and-forth between himself, Raph, and April. Leonardo occasionally butts in. Donnie does not.

Twenty minutes into the walk and Leonardo abruptly realizes that the space to his left is empty. He can’t help the bolt of alarm that follows and he whirls around to find that Donnie has fallen back several meters, his feet dragging, head bowed. One hand trails against the wall of the sewer for support.

“Donnie,” he calls, stopping in his tracks. There’s some shuffling behind him, the murmur of voices, but Leonardo doesn’t turn to look. Donnie lifts his face and Leonardo hisses through his teeth once he sees how drawn and pallid Donnie looks, the green of his skin washed out. Leonardo takes a step towards him.

Donnie’s knees give out.

With a burst of speed Leonardo hadn’t realized he had in him, he covers the distance between himself and Donnie and catches him before he can hit the ground. He grunts at the sudden dead weight in his arms, bracing his legs against it. “Donnie, dude, not cool,” he grits out.

“Here, let me—” Mikey pops suddenly into Leonardo’s field of vision, and the weight in his arms shifts. Together, they lower Donnie until he’s sitting on the ground, Mikey keeping a hand on Donnie’s shoulder to hold him upright. Leonardo uses a knuckle to lift Donnie’s chin, shifting to get a better look at his face.

Donnie’s still conscious, fortunately. He’s breathing heavily, eyes half-lidded and sweat beading against his skin. His lips are pulled into a tight line. “I’m fine,” he exhales shakily, tilting his head away from Leonardo’s hand.

“Nuh-uh. No way. What’s that thing you say, uh, about, I dunno, trends or somethin’. Once is chance, twice is…” Leonardo starts to say, one hand dropping to a tiny, undamaged section of Donnie’s battle shell in order to support his back. He’s cut off when Donnie makes a tight, choked off noise and jerks away, nearly toppling onto his side in the process. He’d have fallen were it not for Mikey’s grip on his shoulder. Leonardo yanks his hand back, eyes wide. “Are you hurt?”

“Coincidence,” Donnie says, voice strained around the edges.

“Huh?”

“Twice is… coincidence. Thrice is a trend.”

Mikey adjusts himself so that he’s shoring up Donnie’s side, face scrunched up with worry. “Who cares about all that, dude, dropping twice is—like, I’m pretty sure that’s bad. That’s bad, right?”

“Yes, that’s bad,” April says from behind. Leonardo turns his head to see that the others have fallen back to surround them. April has a hand on Raph’s arm, frowning. “I think he’s injured, guys.”

“ _He_ is sitting right here,” Donnie bites out, his voice a little steadier as he catches his breath. “And I’m—”

“Do _not_ say fine again,” Raph growls.

Leonardo’s a little annoyed that Donnie has enough energy to roll his eyes.

“You promised no more falling!” Splinter says, moving to stand beside Leonardo. His ears and whiskers are pulled sharply back, and Leo can just make out the slight twitch to his nose.

Donnie snorts, weak but amused. “You… you know I’m not trustworthy.”

“What is the problem? You said you were okay.” Splinter doesn’t hesitate to place his hand on Donnie’s forehead, but the touch doesn’t linger there and instead slides down to cup his cheek. 

Once again, Donnie tilts his face away from the contact. “I thought I was,” he says, frustration bleeding into his words. “It didn’t… seem that bad.” He tries to use Mikey’s shoulder to leverage himself to his feet, only to gasp in pain and slump back down before anyone could stop him. “I may h-have miscalculated,” he grits out.

Raph moves closer, one hand going to hover above Donnie’s shell without touching. He’s staring at the damage with wide eyes. “Shredder must have gotten ya. C’mon, let’s take off the battle shell—”

_”Do not,”_ Donnie snaps; some of the power in his voice is lost beneath a subtle tremor. “I am fairly certain… that the shell is preventing me from bleeding any more than I am.”

“You’re bleeding?” Leonardo exclaims, drawing away to get a better look at him. He feels ill.

“That… fall jostled things a bit.” Even exhausted, Donnie sounds increasingly irritated. “Please, let’s freak… out _after_ we get home. Help me up.” He starts moving again, ignoring Leonardo’s quiet noise of protest. After a moment of silent debate conveyed only with glances, Mikey and Leonardo begin helping him to his feet. He slumps heavily against Leonardo’s side once he’s upright, his breathing once again heavy and jaw grit tight enough that Leonardo can see the way the muscle jumps out.

Leonardo opens his mouth to make some quip, but nothing comes to mind. His teeth click shut. 

“Lemme help,” Mikey murmurs, gently tugging Donnie’s other arm over his shoulder. He winces when Donnie makes a pained noise with the jostling, wide eyes meeting Leonardo’s. Leonardo offers him the most reassuring smile he can manage. From the shean gathering in Mikey’s eyes, he gets the idea that it doesn’t quite succeed.

Splinter looks decidedly unhappy. “Purple,” he begins.

“Home first, dad,” Raph murmurs, gently placing a hand on Splinter’s shoulder. His brows are knotted together and he watches Donnie raptly for several moments before forcing his gaze away. “C’mon, we’re almost there.”

Splinter relents reluctantly; and with that, the group is on their way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gestures pointedly at the tags. some updates! read those and make sure you're fine with them, because a few are relevant in this chapter! nothing severe—i think i'm trying to keep things pretty light? i guess?—but if descriptions of anxiety are potential triggers for your anxiety, Now You Know.
> 
> since i have a few chapters written already, i updated the tags to include any relevant information, and also just like. general personal headcanons, because heck yeah. of note: mikey and donnie know for sure that they're autistic, leo and raph are either uncertain or haven't really figured it out, and they all have ADHD.
> 
> anyways have fun (praying hands emoji)

_”Almost there”_ was another twenty minutes at their previous pace, and with Donatello barely capable of keeping his feet under him things go notably slower. Midway through that final stretch, Mikey switches out with Raphael, Leo with April; even with their combined concern, everybody is running on fumes. 

Finally the tunnels become familiar—scattered here and there, Mikey’s tags stand out in the darkened gloom, neons and stark black lines that have Splinter shaking his head. He says something about marking the way to their lair with breadcrumbs, a comment that goes unacknowledged, and Splinter doesn’t bother pressing the issue.

Then: home. 

The atrium is dark when they get to it; the night sky and city lights high above offer a miniscule amount of light, but it is more than that which is found within the sewer tunnels. Mikey wastes no time moving to flick on a couple of the lights strung across the open space, and then he and Leo forge ahead of the others for the medbay. 

The medbay is located west of the atrium’s first level, in a tunnel closest to the television room. It’s a relatively small space, chosen both for its convenience in location and for the fact that there had been no place for it elsewhere. A sliding garage door makes up the back wall, hiding an even smaller room that contains within it mostly junk, much of which that has been collected by Donatello himself. The medical equipment is distinctly lacking compared to a human’s average hospital space; Donnie has complained more than a few times about how difficult it is to find medical-grade equipment in a functional (and sterile) enough condition to repair and reuse. They’ve always managed just fine without high-grade medical equipment, though. 

They can only hope the same holds true now.

Of the available equipment comes one that is, presently, the most vital; an exam table, modified to fit several different positions and needs. April and Raphael are practically dragging Donnie between them by the time they reach it, and it is with uneasy impatience that they wait for Leo to readjust the table so that its backing is flat. Carefully, they help Donnie climb onto it. 

By the time he’s settled prone upon it his skin is ashen, sweat casting his face in an uncomfortable sheen beneath the medbay’s stark white lights. He slumps almost bonelessly against the cool surface of the exam table, struggling to catch his breath.

Raphael tries not to stare at the battle shell. He looks away, towards the corner counter, and watches as Mikey rustles through one of the lower cabinets. He pulls out a small armful of clean, white towels and dumps them onto the counter. 

Their eyes meet as Mikey turns around. Raphael is struck by the grim look on his brother’s face.

“We gotta get that thing off,” April says, voice pulling Raphael’s attention towards her. She’s looking over the battle shell with pursed lips, and she makes as though to reach for it before her hand falls limp to her side. “Donnie, how do we—”

“On it,” Donnie grunts, shifting his arm enough that he can reach over his shoulder and press the release switch. A soft _hiss_ follows, and then the left strap relinquishes its grip on his shoulder. The right one twitches and _click-clicks_ but, bent somewhat out of shape that it is, it can’t seem to unlock itself properly. Donnie turns his face to his right to frown at the crooked strap. 

“Don?” Raphael asks, trepidation settling over his shoulders. 

Donnie exhales. “It’s fine.”

Raphael hesitates, wondering if he should press the issue— _fine_ has been Donnie’s favorite word today, which definitely puts its true meaning under scrutiny—but finally he decides it isn’t worth it. Donnie knows better than him, after all. “If you say so,” he agrees. 

Splinter hovers nearby as Raphael grabs the battle shell’s rims on either side and attempts to ease it away. Rather than it slipping off, however, he’s met with some resistance. Raphael frowns, confused, but then chalks it up to the faulty strap and gives the shell a firmer tug.

A sharp, strangled cry wrangles its way out of Donnie’s throat.

Raphael freezes, eyes wide and grip tightening instinctively. Mikey has his hand at his mouth, gnawing at his nails, and April and Leo both look on with stricken expressions.

“Fuck,” Donnie hisses, chest heaving. There are tears gathering at the corner of his eyes and he digs his forehead into the unyielding surface of the table. 

“Don, what—” Raphael begins, voice pitched.

“It’s f-fine,” Donnie interrupts, but the tremor in his voice says otherwise. He white-knuckles the edges of the exam table. “Just—just get it over with.”

Raphael stares down at his hands, at the shattered shell, the jagged metal. With the lights bright overhead he can see into it now as he couldn’t before, and inside the bends and folds, visible among the ruin, he can make out something red. He feels—not for the first time—frightened. Desperate eyes lift to the others, to Splinter, who has stepped up to the head of the exam table and is resting a hand atop Donnie’s bare shoulder. 

“It is okay,” Splinter says softly, to both Donatello and Raphael. “Once again, my son.”

Raphael grits his teeth and scrunches his eyes shut, inhaling deeply. He holds that breath for a moment, then two—allows himself to feel the way his heart _thud-uds_ in his chest—and then much of the tension leaves him with his exhale. He can’t slow his pulse but he can steady his hands, and that’ll have to do. “Right,” he says, determined. “Okay. Count of three, Don.”

“‘Kay,” comes Donnie’s muffled reply.

“One…” He lightly readjusts his grip, gaze flickering up to the bent strap. No use drawing this out. “Two,” he says, and then holds still for hardly another beat before yanking up and forward. In one clean motion the shell comes off, its malfunctioning strap only barely clipping Donnie’s shoulder as it is pulled away.

Donnie does not make a single sound beyond a choking gasp, his body jerking sharply once and then slumping limp and heavy against the table. Mikey squeaks and rushes over, crouching at Donnie’s side and grasping one of his hands. 

The first thing that Raphael truly registers—beyond the unbalanced weight in his hands—is the _blood._ The battle shell must have prevented Donnie from bleeding too much before, but now it pools out of the four lacerations cutting diagonally across his damaged shell, dripping in thick rivulets down Donnie’s side and puddling onto the table. He doesn’t really feel _there_ as Splinter barks out orders and the others all converge around Donnie, towels in hand as they begin to wipe up the blood and staunch the bleeding.

Raphael watches it all in a haze, the bustle of voices and movement fading into white noise. Beneath the buzz in his head he can only make out the sound Donnie had made, echoed on loop. It had sounded like he was choking. Being strangled.

Raphael’s throat constricts, his breathing turning shallow. Something like panic climbs his chest.

A small, warm hand pressing against his side startles Raphael from the maelstrom that is his head and he twitches, taking a step back from the exam table. It takes him a moment to tug his fraying edges close, to deepen his breathing, but finally he looks down to see Splinter gazing back up at him. The world regains some clarity. 

“Come,” Splinter instructs kindly. “Set that aside, my son. You have done your part.” 

Raphael looks down at the heap of metal in his hands, suddenly remembering what he holds. Through the deep tears rented into it he can make out the cold concrete of the medbay floor. The metal backing had been pushed outward, alloys curling sharp through the meager leather padding meant to cushion Donnie’s actual shell. The tips glisten red from where they had pierced through flesh. 

It reminds him of teeth. 

His stomach does a funny, twisting coil that leaves him feeling nauseous and somewhat light-headed. Suddenly desperate to get it out of his hands, Raphael turns sharply around and sets the battle shell down in the corner, well out of the way, and then he follows his father with a slight stumble to a rolling chair in the corner across. Splinter guides him into it with a gentle smile, although it does nothing to hide the tightening at the corner of his eyes. “Rest,” Splinter tells him.

“But I—” Raphael protests faintly. His voice is weak. It feels like he’s missing something.

“Donatello will be fine. Give yourself a moment. It is okay.”

It doesn’t feel okay. Some of the buzzing has receded but he can feel it beneath his skin, still, waiting to rise up and swallow him whole. 

“Breathe, Red,” Splinter murmurs, and Raphael becomes aware once again how shallow his breathing has become.

It takes two aborted attempts but, finally, he manages to fill his lungs with one long, deep inhalation. He can’t hold it for any more than a second, but the breath that follows is easier, and so is the one after that. The vice constricting his lung loosens.

Splinter’s hand settles atop his own and Raphael turns his palm upright to grip it gently, focusing his attention on the warmth and comfort of the contact. Splinter usually runs warmer than his siblings, something Raphael has always appreciated about their father. It makes every touch feel that much more grounding whenever his mind starts to overwhelm him.

The buzz has softened its edges into that of a low, nigh-indiscernible hum which settles itself at the back of his head by the time he lifts his gaze towards the exam table and those surrounding it.

April has taken up a standing position over Donnie, firmly pressing a bloodied towel against the still-leaking wounds. Leo is at the counter, his shaking fingers fumbling over an open case of first aid equipment—as Raphael watches, Leo drops something with a muttered curse. Mikey crouches at Donnie’s head. He’s holding one of Donnie’s hands, murmuring something in a low voice. And Donnie…

Donnie himself is still conscious, eyes half-lidded and mouth pulled in a tiny, tight line. His back moves beneath April’s hands in uneven lurches as he fights to breathe deeply. There are dark purple splotches soaked into his mask at the corner of his eyes. When Raphael focuses, he can make out Mikey’s words.

“—ar,” Mikey says, “at least a little, I think? But I bet it’ll look cool!”

Donnie flickers his eyes up at Mikey, somehow managing to convey a distinct lack of amusement through his pained grimace.

Mikey’s chuckle is watery. “Sorry, sorry,” he says. “You’re going to agree with me, though. I know it.” He places a hand against his chest and primly states, “I have a sense for these things.”

“He does,” April chimes in. She sounds remarkably calm despite the blood that still soaks into the towel she holds. “‘Nother towel, Lee,” she says in a softer voice, and then presses the fresh one Leo passes over to her atop the blood-soaked one. “Of the lot of ya, Mikey’s the only one with any real sense of style.”

“Why, thank you, Ms. O’Neil.”

Donatello doesn’t respond to any of it, but his mouth twitches in the facsimile of a smile. Raphael feels some of the tension in his shoulders loosen at the sight of it.

“Pops,” Leo calls, pulling both Splinter and Raphael’s attention to him. “Everything’s set up.” He gestures to his side, and Raphael can recognize the suturing kit nestled neatly among several other items set up atop the mobile metal tray. On the counter between Leo and the sink is a hefty collection of bandages. 

Raphael wonders how many stitches Donnie will need.

And then he dashes the thought from his mind in the next moment because it does nothing except constrict his throat further, and he’s fairly certain having (another?) panic attack right now would be less than helpful. He exhales heavily; his head _thunks_ against the wall when he tips it back. He can feel Splinter’s eyes on him.

Guilt at pulling Splinter away from the one who needs him more fills Raphael’s chest, and he relinquishes his hold on Splinter’s hand. “Go take care of him,” he says. “I’m okay.”

Splinter observes him for a moment longer. Seemingly satisfied by what he finds, he nods once, pats Raphael’s knee, and finally turns away.

Raphael shuts his eyes and heaves a sigh. The loss of contact reignites some of his anxiety, but he successfully tamps it back down. Donnie will be okay, Splinter said. His family has it all figured out. Donnie’s going to be okay, and there’s not a thing which Raphael can offer right now that isn’t already being taken care of. 

He can sit, if only for a few moments, and breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the layout of the layer is a mystery to me. i know for sure they have the atrium, which links them to different levels of the layer, but beyond that? it's an unknown. also as far as i'm aware we see no method of navigating from one level to another, so i imagine they just use their sick flips to get around? which, uh, is not very helpful if someone is injured. so i kinda... guessed. and whatever.
> 
> preddy please leave a comment if you can, they are like actually the only things that motivate me to keep updating. i need validation dude i am a needy individual. thank y


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more warnings for blood and injury in this chapter, + things (metal) within aforementioned injuries. in case that's a big squick for anyone. i'm not very graphic about it, i don't think, but Just In Case.
> 
> also, longest chapter yet! augh. OUGHHG. that's all i have to say about that.

“How is the bleeding?” Splinter asks as he approaches April, wheeling beside him a metal tray covered in medical equipment. 

April carefully pulls the bundled towels away to check both it and Donnie’s shell. The first layer is stained a deep red, but it doesn’t soak all the way through the folds of the second. Blood wells up slowly from the newly exposed wounds. They still look bad, definitely, but with most of the excess blood cleaned up, it isn’t as terrible as she had initially thought. “Not bad,” she says. 

“Good,” Splinter says, relieved. “Orange—”

“He’s out,” Mikey pipes up, climbing to his feet. April doesn’t miss that he still holds Donnie’s limp hand in his own, his thumb brushing over Donnie’s knuckles. His gaze flickers towards the wounds and then away just as quickly. “Passed out in the middle of my plans for a cool yokai restaurant. Rudest way to exit a conversation, frankly. My feelings are hurt.”

“Hey, jokes to cope with stressful situations are supposed to be my thing,” Leo says as he approaches, earning himself a snort from April. He shoots her a tired smirk. 

“Who says I was joking?” Mikey asks, scrunching up his face. “I’m a delicate flower, Leo. You know how I get when I’m ignored.”

“I guess it can be our thing for now,” Leo concedes. 

“He passed out ‘cause he’s bleeding out of his back, Mike,” April points out. “I think that’s a valid reason for exiting a conversation.”

She regrets saying that in the very next moment. Mikey’s expression shutters, shoulders drooping; he wilts like the flower he claims to be. His gaze drops to Donnie’s hand still held within his own. The lines around his eyes are heavy, the frown on his face unbefitting of his usually bright demeanor.

April bites her lip and glances desperately to Leo for help. She’s not too good at comforting people; her approach tends to be a bit abrasive and straightforward and, while that works great on Donnie, Mikey is a whole other story.

Fortunately Leo swoops to the rescue. “Oh, he’s not special,” he drawls, looping an arm around Mikey’s shoulder and settling some of his weight against him. “I can pass out way quicker than him—time me!” He goes limp all of a sudden and Mikey squacks, releasing his hold on Donnie’s hand to prevent Leo from collapsing.

Mikey catches on in the next moment. “Get off me!” he snaps with a smile both amused and annoyed, shoving Leo. Leo goes sprawling; he shifts his weight so that he lands on his side and April is familiar enough with lessons about falling properly to see that he catches himself just fine. 

Leo pushes himself immediately upright and fixes Mikey with a dramatic frown. “You were supposed to catch me!” he complains. 

“You never said that,” Mikey says with crossed arms, side-stepping the light kick Leo aims at his ankle. He turns his face up as he looks down at Leo. “You only told me to time you.”

“Well, did you? I _gotta_ know if I beat Donnie.”

Mikey sniffs daintily. “I did not.”

 _“Rude,”_ Leo mutters hotly, scrambling to his feet.

Despite the bloody towel still in hand and the unconscious little brother passed out before her, April finds herself smiling. She opens her mouth with a jab towards Leo at the tip of her tongue but suddenly Splinter is back before she can, this time wheeling beside him a rolling stool. She hadn’t even noticed him leaving.

“Boys,” he says firmly, and Leo and Mikey snap to attention. He looks them over with a critical eye for a brief moment, whiskers twitching. “Leonardo,” he says finally, “how steady are your hands?”

Leo blinks at the question, one brow arching, but Splinter only looks pointedly towards Donatello and then back again. “Oh,” Leo says, looking down at his hands. The tremor from before still remains. He frowns in mild consternation.

“Donnie said something about low sugars, right?” Mikey asks, catching on quick. “I’ll get you some juice, that should help.”

“Right,” Leo agrees absently. Mikey steps away. April watches him pause at the doorway to speak to Raph, who lifts his head and murmurs something back. After a moment, he heaves himself to his feet and follows Mikey out of the room. She looks back towards Leo.

He’s still staring at his hands. His fingers flex once, twice, and then curl into loose fists that tighten intermittently. Distantly she recalls something about Leo being the group medic, at least in some sense of the term. They all know first aid to various degrees of mastery—Mikey had been the one to splint her ankle after a particularly bad twist a few years back—but there had been something about Leo stitching someone up before, she thinks. A faint scar on the back of Raph’s calf comes to mind a moment later.

She looks down at her own hands, pressing a blood-stained towel against still-bleeding wounds. Once again she is reminded of the stark difference between her life and theirs; whereas she can depend on human doctors armed with decades—centuries—of research, they are isolated and denied even basic care, forced to rely only on themselves. Wounds which a doctor would see to on a human left instead in the care of brothers.

There is blood on her hands in the literal sense. Smeared and dried, most of it absorbed by the towel used to staunch the lightened flow from Donnie’s wounds, but still there. 

April tries to think of something to say. Nothing comes to mind.

“April,” Splinter calls, and she tilts her head towards him. He’s climbed onto the rolling stool and now stands across from her and in his hands are a clean cloth and a small brown bottle. He flicks open the cap and pours some of the liquid within it carefully onto the cloth and then he holds it out to her. “We must clean his wounds before we can do anything more.”

“Thought that was what I was doin’,” she jokes, releasing the light pressure she’s been keeping on Donnie’s shell to accept the rag. A sharp smell wafts up from it. It makes her think vaguely of boiled copper. 

Splinter does not respond to her quip. He wets his own rag and then reaches over to remove the one soaking up the blood. “Be careful,” he warns her, leaning over Donnie. He works the towel gently over one of the shallower sections of a wound to demonstrate, carefully wiping off crusted and coagulating blood from the edges. “Not too much pressure,” he instructs, “and watch for any metal pieces. Some may have broken off of the shell.”

April presses her lips together at the reminder of the state of Donnie’s battle shell. She’d managed to get a good look at it after Raph removed it; saw blood drip onto the concrete from the puncturing edges of metal, caught a glimpse of Raph’s plastron through the gouges before he had set it aside. It hadn’t looked pretty and the wounds on Donnie’s shell look even less so.

But April is nothing if not steadfast even in unfamiliar, frightening situations, and so she swallows down the uncomfortable lump forming in her throat and gets to work. She mimics Splinter’s tiny wiping motions, careful not to press the rag into the scratches any more than necessary. Some begin to bleed again, particularly where the lacerations run deepest, but not as they had before.

Together she and Splinter find and remove five different tiny shards of metal. Watching him use a pair of tweezers to pull out a particularly deep, thin panel leaves her feeling vaguely ill, but April ignores it in favor of completing the task set out before her.

When finally Splinter informs her that they can stop April steps away with an exhale of relief. Donnie is still unconscious, lax against the table, and for that she is grateful—she doesn’t think she can stand hearing any more pained noises out of him. 

“Everything about this sucks,” she decides aloud, setting the rag aside. 

“Tell me about it,” Leo agrees.

April looks up, startled to realize that the others are still in the room—and surprised to find that Mikey and Raph had returned at all. She must not have noticed. Leo is leaning against the counter, an empty glass in hand; beside him sits an unopened pack of crackers. Mikey and Raph are seated on a stool and the ground respectively, beside the entrance. They all look as tired as she feels.

“... I don’t think I need to,” she says with a shrug. She crosses the distance between them to the sink beside Leo, twisting the knob for hot water. It’s scalding by the time April begins vigorously scrubbing the blood off her hands and absently she wonders how they manage to have such fantastic water pressure.

“Blue,” Splinter greets, a note of wariness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “We do not need as many stitches as I had feared, but some are required. How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m about to drop dead,” Leo admits, blasé attitude unable to mask the truth beneath it. “Steady hands, though, boss. Let’s get this over with.” He propels himself off the counter and approaches the stool Splinter had recently abandoned. “Show me the damage.”

“In a moment. Orange, Red.” Mikey and Raph both perk up at being addressed. April finally forces her hands out of the water and dries them with her skirt. “Go, you two, rest. Set April up a place to sleep.” He turns to April then with a questioning look. “Unless you would like to return to your home, of course.”

April balks at the mere concept. “Nuh-uh, no way. I ain’t leavin’ until I know for sure that Donnie’s okay,” she says, shaking her head hard. 

Splinter smiles in understanding. “He will be fine,” he assures. “Be sure you inform your parents should you stay, however.”

It feels like his words have to travel through several loops of processing before the meaning finally registers. “Oh,” April says; then, eyes widening with a slow horror, _“Oh, shit!”_ Splinter laughs as she goes digging frantically through her pockets, yanking out her phone the moment her fingers brush against it. 

There is a single, small crack that splits the lower left-hand corner off from the rest, but the whole screen lights up when she presses the power button. _27%,_ her charge reads. There are no notable notifications beyond a few mildly concerned texts from Sunita and an image file from her mom and April slumps with relief. It stinks, sometimes, having parents who are always busy—and often out of town—but with it comes a degree of freedom the average sixteen-year-old doesn’t get to experience.

What with the life April leads? Yeah, that distance is vital.

She sends off a quick reassuring response to Sunita followed by a, _if my parents ask u, i’m helping u w/ an extra cred class project._ It’s only after the text is sent that she catches the time. 

_2:12 AM,_ her phone politely informs her.

April pauses. The clock chooses then to change— _2:13 AM_ —and it feels a little surreal. She tries to remember when all of this first began—how long ago had she and Splinter scouted out the Foot Clan’s base? When, next, had she boarded the train? When was she captured, ripped away from her friends? When did she and Splints reconvene, when did they find his sons again, how long were they fighting Draxum, and then Shredder?

It feels like ages, and yet only hours. 

Her phone chimes suddenly, startling her. It’s a text from Sunita, the little bubble indicating that she’s typing more. What is she doing up so late? Not that April has room to speak, but… still!

 **Sunita:** ok!!!!  
**Sunita:** it’s good to hear from you!!! are you okay???

April smiles at the overuse of punctuation. She starts typing a little affirmation but midway through something makes her stop. She hesitates. Stares at Sunita’s text. _Are you okay?_

Is she okay?

April... isn’t sure. She’s exhausted, with bruises and scrapes and a yawning, nauseating emptiness in her stomach, and all her conscious brothers look ready to pass out, and she thinks if she sits down for too long she’ll, like. Die or something. Not to mention Donnie’s wounds, a reminder that her second family isn't unscathed.

She frowns. April had watched Shredder attack him. She saw it happen. Mikey _threw_ a _ship._ Raph pummeled Shredder into the ground with his super… smash form, or whatever. And still he got up. He got up and Donnie stared him down and April had seen the way Shredder tore through everything Donnie threw at him.

She had watched Donnie try to run. She had watched Shredder stop him. From her vantage on the crane she had watched as Shredder tore through Donnie’s battle shell as though it were paper.

And then she threw a shipping container at a destructive, magical suit of demon armor. 

With a crane. 

It hadn’t been enough. April isn’t really surprised by that—if her brothers’ magic hadn’t been enough, if Donnie’s tech hadn’t put a dent on him, what would a shipping container do? What could April do? Distract him from ripping Donnie to shreds, at least.

Her mind flashes with the full image of Donnie’s shell she had gotten while cleaning the wounds and picking metal out of flesh, and she realizes she hadn’t really succeeded in stopping Shredder. She hadn’t been quick enough in the end.

Donnie’s blood has dried onto her hands. Against the light of her phone screen she can see where some of it had managed to get beneath her nail. She must not have noticed it earlier.

Her eyes prickle, tears pooling unbidden. She blinks them rapidly away and takes a few deep breaths, forcing down the wad of emotion in her chest and tightening around her throat. She can cry about this later, she reminds herself firmly. Tomorrow maybe. Right now she needs to keep it together long enough to… survive the night.

First things first: Sunita. April doesn’t want to lie to her and she doesn’t want to start a conversation right yet either, and she jams out a response with that in mind.

 **April:** i’ve been better  
**April:** i’ll tell you more about it l8r, tho. i gotta do some stuff rn

 **Sunita:** okay!! don’t stay up too late. i’m here if you need me!!!

 **April:** thanks, sunny. ttyl

That done, she moves onto her mom’s text. It’s just a picture of some coffee with an adorable flower drawn in with foam and April can’t help but smile both with a small burble of amusement and with relief. The lack of any other texts means that mom hasn’t caught wind of what’s happened in the stadium—and the museum—and the docks—just yet, so her parents aren’t worried. It likely helps that she’d messaged both her parents yesterday—or was that the day before?—because they don’t often go days without some sort of communication between them. 

She should probably call them soon. Tomorrow, maybe. Once the news of what had occurred becomes more widespread she doubts she’ll be able to get out of a call with them—not that she particularly wants to. Hopefully she’ll have some time to breathe before then, at least.

For now she shoots off a little apology for taking so long to reply and offers some vague explanation about a school project she’s helping her friends with—one of the many, many lies she’s come up with to cover her ass. Maybe texting so late isn’t particularly reassuring but April knows it’ll be fine. It’s not entirely out of character for her to be up way too late.

Is there… anything else that needs doing? She stares at her screen blankly. Her mind turns. It’s not the weekend, so the school will probably have questions. That’s not something she needs to worry about until later, however—there’s nothing she can do about it now.

Her phone screen goes dark on its own.

April blinks back into focus. “Anyone got a charger?” she asks finally, pocketing it. 

“I do,” Mikey says. He slides off the stool. He hesitates there, though, looking over the room, from where Leo and Splinter stand over Donnie to Raph’s spot on the ground, and then his gaze turns back to April. He looks like he wants to say something but all that comes is, “I can set you up my spare hammock, if you want.”

“Did I not just say that I wasn’t leavin’ until I know Don’s okay?” April asks pointedly. “But you can get me a pillow, ‘cause I’m sittin’ my butt on this floor ‘til my buddy’s good.” 

“April,” Splinter begins, but when April spins to face him, jaw set, he falters. His gaze lingers on her for a moment, and then passes over the other two.

“I dunno if I can sleep yet,” Raph admits quietly.

Mikey leans against the threshold of the exit. “Me neither.”

Splinter sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Go,” he instructs. April opens her mouth to object but Splinter juts out his hand, halting her in her verbal tracks. “Clean yourselves. Eat. See to your own wounds. If you remain you could be a distraction for Leonardo, and he needs focus. I will come retrieve you when we are finished here.”

April looks to Leo. He offers her an easy smile and a dismissive wave of his hand. “Go on, get. You do _not_ wanna be around for this part, trust me. It ain’t pretty.” 

She considers protesting. She doesn’t want to leave. Glancing over Mikey and Raph, she can see the same reluctance reflected back at her. Walking away from something uncomfortable whilst the greater half of her family has no choice but to face it feels like giving up, somehow. It feels like abandoning them. Abandoning Donnie.

 _But you aren’t,_ she reminds herself firmly. Leo returns his attention to the suturing kit and Splinter silently shoos them out of the room. _They’ll take care of him._

Besides, she feels like she might drop dead at any moment. She should’ve asked Mikey to get her some juice too, now that she thinks about it. 

“Okay,” she agrees. “You better not pull a fast one on us, though, ‘cause I _will_ kick your butt.” She jabs a finger at Splinter forcefully.

Splinter chuckles. “I do not doubt it. Now go—we would be better off not waiting any longer.”

Shoving her hands into her pocket, April pivots on her heel and walks past Mikey. He looks up at her; she inclines her head in the direction of the kitchen and he nods his assent. April waits at the other end of the small connecting tunnel for both Mikey and Raph to catch up, and then she leads the way to the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA YOU ALL THOUGHT THIS WAS SPECIFICALLY DONNIE-CENTRIC! well, so did i, but things happened really hard and before i knew it i was like "wow actually i bet everyone feels a little bittle bit Messed Up after the whole shredder business." which. maybe i need to update my summary so it's more clear that the focus is kind of... all over the place? i won't, i mean. i'm lazy. but, like, i probably should. (but i won't.)
> 
> if you have the energy and inclination to leave a comment, please do so! comments motivate me to write more and also help me combat my whole... anxiety about posting something bigger than a one-shot. (three chapters is the furthest i've ever gotten without just deleting the whole work! i'm proud of myself today.) if you haven't the energy to do so i do understand, so don't feel guilted into it. thanks for reading!!!11


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the longest chapter yet! 4.2k, i think? whew, i really do this to myself. sorry for the delay in uploading—i was in quarantine for a bit because a household member caught covid, which let me find time and energy to churn out the first three chapters, but i've been back to work for the last week and dealing with the usual low energy state i tend to exist perpetually in. makes writing difficult, but i won't let that stop me!
> 
> unrelated, but LOOK! [FANART!!1](https://tiredrobin.tumblr.com/post/634069862290964480/id-a-single-drawing-of-donatello-from-rottmnt) this is so exciting, oh my goodness. courtesy of iamsharktastic on tumblr, and [here is a link to their website!](https://www.sharktastic-art.com/) give 'em a glance, why don't'cha!
> 
>  **warning** for a (mild, i think?) depiction of a meltdown in this chapter, in case that's necessary for any of you folks.

Michelangelo’s head is, as a rule, never still. He’s a creative spirit—ideas form and collapse within him between breaths, and he makes connections between things so rapidly that he often cannot recall the path he took to get wherever he ends up. Leo struggles the most with turning off, sure, but Mikey’s pretty high up there in the brain-never-shuts-up department himself. The only time it feels like it ever has any sort of direction is when he fixates on something.

As he shuffles idly through cabinets in search for low-effort snacks, however, his mind is quiet. His thoughts drift, directionless as ever but now without substance. It feels a little like smoke slipping through his fingers. 

It’s not an entirely unfamiliar sensation. There are days where he wakes up with his head in a smog he can’t shake off, days where everything takes thrice the amount of effort than it should to focus on. Donnie usually refers to it as, rather adequately, “brainfog". There’s not much Mikey can do about it except power through and hope things are better the next morning.

In contrast, everything outside of him feels a little too sharp. The yellow-orange lights of the kitchen are beginning to hurt his eyes, and every time Raph shifts in his seat and makes the chair legs scrape against the ground, it grates against Mikey’s ears. His skin is uncomfortably itchy. It all leaves him feeling unbalanced, as though he’s walking along the precipice of… something. Like if he isn’t careful, he’s going to tilt over the edge.

But there isn’t anything to walk away from—or, better put, no way to walk away from it, not really. He could technically leave, could shower and hide in his room, could sleep off the tension building in the back of his head, but then he might miss it if something happens to Donatello and Mikey can’t stand the idea.

“Nothin’ a ‘lil food can’t fix,” he murmurs, flicking his fingers. He stops the motion a second later, grimacing at the sensation of his bandaids as they slide against one another. Raph and April both had been annoyingly insistent that they take care of their own scrapes and cuts as soon as they got to the kitchen, Raph going so far as to return to his own room and grab the first aid box stowed away somewhere within. 

Mikey had subjected himself to their fussing willingly, of course—he’s very tired, not stupid, and they live in a sewer. Infections are no laughing matter.

At the very least, Mikey enjoys the pressure from the bandaids. He’s careful not to let them touch again when he flicks his fingers some more, appreciating how their compression increases and decreases intermittently.

“Wha’wazzat?” April asks from behind, drawing him from his musings. She and Raph are seated at the center table, April with the glass of juice Raph had retrieved for her. The sound of her voice startles him, which is dumb because he knows she’s there.

Mikey flaps a hand over his shoulder to wave her off. “Talkin’ to myself.”

“That’s a sign of losing your marbles, y’know.”

“After what we’ve been through? I think a little marble lossage is excusable.”

April snorts.

Mikey returns to his quest for easy food when he realizes that he’s been staring into the same cabinet for a little while now, still with no idea what it is exactly that he’s looking for. He starts twisting his fingers only for the bandaids to scrape together again. He winces, forcing his hands to drop to his sides. Their restlessness is making him wish he had a tangle or something, but there are none in sight. Maybe he should go grab one from his room?

But—no. Mikey shakes his head at himself; one problem at a time. Food first. He considers buckling down and making himself a sandwich, but his stomach turns at the thought of something as rich as that. He’s forgotten to eat enough times to recognize the nausea that follows going too long between meals and snacks.

Eventually, he settles for the same brand of plain crackers Leo hadn’t eaten. (He’ll have to remember to grab those from the medbay. He knows that he probably won’t.) "Wanna share?" he asks, looking over his shoulder and wiggling the sleeve of crackers for the other two to see.

"Sure," April says.

"Grab two?" Raph asks.

"No problem." Mikey removes another sleeve and returns the box to the cabinet. Except he doesn’t do it right, apparently, because it immediately tilts over and drops onto the counter. Mikey startles—but it’s just a box of crackers.

The sensation of being out of kilter grows.

Mikey picks the box up again and returns it to its place, careful this time to make sure it’s settled firmly so that it doesn’t fall out on the next person to open the cabinet. With his luck it’d be him, probably.

He turns back to the others. April is hunched over the table; she’s holding her phone with one hand but the screen is dark, and she’s running her thumb against the lower left corner with a furrow to her brows. Raph’s leaning his chin on one hand, eyes turned towards the entrance of the kitchen. Mikey knows without having to look that he’d be able to see the edge of the medbay doors across the atrium from where Raph sits.

“Here, catch,” Mikey says. It's habit that has him tossing the sleeve of crackers to Raph, and it's reflex that has Raph making to grab it; but Mikey realizes as soon as it's in the air that his aim is _way_ off, and Raph is a little slow to the uptake, distracted as he is, and then the sleeve hits the table with a loud plasticky crinkle. Raph's not quick enough to snag it before it slides over the edge and smacks into the ground with another hard _slap._

There’s a solid moment of silence as everyone blinks down at the fallen packet.

Mikey feels like he’s tilting.

Raph’s lower lip juts out in a pout as he leans over to scoop it up. “Aww man, now they’re gonna be all crumbly.” He looks genuinely upset.

A giggle burbles its way out of Mikey’s throat unbidden. He slaps a palm over his mouth, startled, but once begun it is as though a dam has burst; he giggles again, which turns into a snicker, which then becomes a laugh. April’s voice joins his only a second behind, too loud, and she reaches across the space between herself and Raph to pat him sympathetically on the shoulder.

“It ain’t that funny,” Raph frowns without any real hurt, and April only cackles with renewed mirth. In a moment Raph is chucking alongside her, his pout gone in favor of a humoring grin. Plastic crinkles again as he tugs open the crackers. A few chunks of broken crackers fall out with the vigorous motion, and Raph’s expression twists up oddly.

But as their amusement peters out, Mikey is still laughing. He doubles over with his arms clutched tight over his abdomen, guffawing helplessly, and he can’t stop. He can’t stop. It’s starting to hurt. His chest spasms with every meager gasp he manages to suck in, but the laughter feels almost ripped out of him and he can’t get it to stop. Tears leak into the fabric surrounding his eyes. His lungs ache with increasing desperation as laughter peals out of him—his next breath catches, scratching along his dry throat—and his howls make the abrupt, grating transition into a coughing fit.

He realizes just a moment too late what must be happening, and then that single coherent thought is swept away beneath a wave of _too much, too much, too much._

Between coughs a sob scrapes its way out of him, and then another. It feels like he’s sucking air through a straw. Mikey presses his hands to his head, palms digging into his eyelids. His chest hurts, everything hurts, and he can’t _think._ He feels like a raw nerve—a tooth cavity—like the very air is sharp, cutting into him, exposing his core to the world. 

Every sense condenses into that single pinpoint of _too much_ and his body refuses to listen to him, his lungs refuse to fill, his nails won’t stop biting into the skin of his forehead.

Mikey doesn’t know how long it lasts. He only knows that there is a storm—that he is the storm—and it is such a torrential downpour and he is only scattered particles within it, every pinballing thought a shattering of lightning, every scratch of sensation a crashing of thunder, but then—eventually, slowly and in increments—the storm begins to pass; until almost as suddenly as it had come it is gone, and there is nothing but a yawning, aching exhaustion which pulls over him and leaves him heavy.

Mikey breathes.

Eventually the world around him finds its way back to him. Mikey becomes aware that he is on the ground. He becomes aware, next, of how uncomfortable that is, and eventually reaches the conclusion that he should get up and find someplace to lay down.

After that decision, his thoughts begin to coalesce together alongside memory, and Mikey remembers that he is in the kitchen, that Raph and April are still (probably) there. As if called by his thoughts, a voice made of rough edges and rounded corners murmurs his name.

Mikey lifts his face to find that the kitchen lights have all been flicked off but a single string of holiday lights overhead, casting the room in a dim glow that is easy on his eyes. Raph sits across from him, hands on his knees, and he grins with relief when he notices Mikey looking at him. “Hey bud,” he says.

Mikey allows himself another few moments to just breathe, silently sleuthing out where his energy lies. He’s tired, more than before, and he very much would like a hug. He swallows around his scratchy throat and figures, finally, that he’s about as okay as could be expected. “Hi,” he says back, and then clears his throat again when the word scrapes.

More relief unfurls in Raph’s expression. “Do you want a hug?” he asks, because Raph is a mind reader.

Mikey nods and doesn’t move, but that’s fine because Raph doesn’t hesitate to close the distance between them and tug Mikey onto his lap. There’s some movement as he adjusts himself so that Mikey is situated atop the cross of his legs and in the folds of his arms, one hand cupping the back of Mikey’s head when he tucks it against Raph’s shoulder.

It’s only then that Mikey becomes aware that his mask is missing, followed by the realization that he has no idea where April is. The former eludes him when he glances around but the latter turns out not to have gone far; she’s on his right, legs tucked beneath her and her glasses pushed up her face as she wipes away her own tears.

“Oh, Apes,” Raph says, sounding like he himself has only just now noticed April’s state.

“It’s fine,” she says automatically, sniffling. “I’m fine, I—”

“I’m gonna start banning that word from this house. Er, sewer. Lair?”

“Huh?” Mikey asks, angling his face to peer up at Raph.

“‘Fine’. None’a you’s seem to know what it means.”

“Yeah I do,” April snaps, but it lacks her usual fire. “I _am_ fine. I’m just—I’m just really, really tired.”

“Aw, Apes,” Mikey says. His tongue feels thick, his head heavy, but Mikey won’t let that stop him. He wriggles until Raph lifts his arms away, likely expecting the hug to end, but Mikey intends for no such thing. Instead he uses the opportunity to lunge out and snag April by the wrist. She yelps as he tugs her against Raph and pulls them both into a hug. “I didn’t know you were a sympathetic crier.”

“I’m not!” she protests but makes no move to push him off. In fact, she only readjusts herself so that she can wrap her arms around his neck. Mikey sinks gratefully into the warmth of her contact and the weight of Raph’s arms settle around them both. April tucks Mikey’s head beneath her chin and sniffles again. “It was just—I got a little freaked out, I guess, I dunno. I’ve almost died, like, four times in the last three days. Or something. I wasn’t keeping track. I’m allowed a few tears.” 

It sounds like she’s trying to rationalize it more for her own sake than theirs. Mikey doesn’t bother pointing that out.

“No one said you aren’t,” Raph says. Mikey can hear the smile in his voice.

“Darn right,” she mutters.

They stay like that for a little while. Mikey isn’t really sure how long. It’s cozy, the pressure and the contact grounding him more firmly into his body. He’s still exhausted, still wants nothing more than to go to sleep, but something stops him from letting his eyes slip shut; an insistent worry beneath his skin which mixes itself with an uncomfortable guilt.

Mikey wants nothing more than to remain there forever but eventually figures that he can’t. He begins to extricate himself from the hug, reluctant that he is to do it, because—comforting as this is—Raph is sitting on cold concrete, and April is all squished up against him and Mikey, and everyone would probably like to move sooner rather than later but Mikey’s pretty sure they won’t until he does.

The other two get the message and pull apart but no one makes to pick themselves off the floor just yet. Raph still keeps an arm draped across Mikey’s shoulder. 

“You good?” Raph asks, and it could be directed to either of them but April doesn’t answer even after a few moments. That must mean it’s meant for Mikey.

Mikey stares down at his hands, mulling over the question. He’s beginning to feel a little embarrassed—he’s pretty outwardly emotional, sure, and it’s been a long time since anyone’s made him feel bad for having a meltdown, but shame has lodged itself uncomfortably in his throat. He should have recognized the signs of an oncoming meltdown sooner. He should have done something to prevent it. 

“Yeah. Sorry,” he mumbles eventually. “I didn’t… I didn’t realize I was so close.”

“Don’t be sorry,” April says immediately. “Today sucks. Like, a lot.”

Mikey huffs a weak laugh. “Yeah. It does. Still, I—”

“None’a that,” Raph interrupts. “If I’m allowed to have a panic attack, you can have a meltdown. We get it, man, no one’s upset with you.”

The reassurance that they aren’t bothered is relieving but Mikey doesn’t linger long over that. “You had a panic attack?”

“Yeah, uh.” Raph rubs the back of his neck, faintly embarrassed. “After I pulled off Don’s battle shell.”

“I didn’t notice,” Mikey admits.

“It’s okay. You guys were taking care of Don. Dad helped me with it, it wasn’t even a full one.” Raph shifts his weight like he’s about to stand back up but then he stops. “Do you need anything? Wanna go to your room or somethin’?”

He really does. He really, really does. Going to his room sounds like the most amazing idea in the world right now. But then he thinks about Donnie, thinks about going to bed without seeing for sure that he’s alright, and that guilt and that worry lodge themselves firmly in his stomach. Mikey shakes his head. “Are—are you guys okay?”

“I’m probably in better shape than all of you, but this floor is makin’ my butt go numb.” April climbs to her feet and holds her hand out for Mikey. He accepts it and allows her to leverage him up, and Raph follows close behind. “Now let’s say we eat some crumbly crackers and, uh, wait for the news on Donnie?”

“Good plan, hoss,” Raph agrees, although his gaze lingers on Mikey for another moment. He’s still probably worried, which is… pretty fair, all things considered. 

“Can we go to the T.V room?” Mikey asks, thinking about the couch pushed against the back wall.

 _”Please,”_ April says, and Raph just snorts and nods his head. April doesn’t immediately follow them when they make for the exit, though. “You guys go ahead, I’m just gonna grab some more juice first. You want some?”

“Yes please,” Mikey says. Raph says something about apple juice if they still have it and April nods and turns towards the fridge. While she quests for sweet liquid sustenance, Mikey follows Raph out of the kitchen and towards the television room.

The projector screen is off when they get there—a rare sight indeed with Splinter home, but it makes sense given his current preoccupation. Mikey wastes no time making for the couch pressed against the wall behind and to the left of Splinter’s chair, although he waits long enough for Raph to sit down before cramming himself immediately beside his brother.

It’s not a particularly big couch; four people can fit onto it with little room to breathe, and if Raph’s there then it easily cuts the number down to three. The way Mikey presses up against Raph—who does not hesitate to pull Mikey into a side-armed hug, fortunately—leaves plenty of room for April when she finally makes her way into the room. 

She’s balancing three glasses in her arms alongside two sleeves of crackers and Mikey realizes too late that they don’t really have anywhere to put it. Before he can think to get up, however, April seems to have already figured it out; she finds a box shoved into a corner light enough to push with a foot and kicks it until it comes to a stop in front of the couch, and there she relieves herself of her burden.

“You’re in luck, Raph, y’all had apple juice.” She passes the glass to him and then holds another one out to Mikey. He accepts it gratefully and pulls his legs in as April settles herself onto the couch beside him.

“Thank you,” Mikey says, and April fixes him with a little grin.

Not much is exchanged beyond that. Mikey finishes his juice quickly, somewhat surprised by how thirsty he is, and then leans forward to set the emptied glass atop the cardboard box. April mirrors his movements only a moment later, setting her cup down in order to snatch up one of the cracker sleeves.

It takes Mikey a second to figure out that it’s probably the one he had been holding; the plastic is crushed around the middle, the crackers within no doubt reduced to dust and crumbs. He must have smushed it in his grip. Mikey doesn’t remember doing that.

April manages to open it without spilling anything—an impressive feat—and pulls out a few of the more intact crackers to pass off to him. Mikey accepts them despite how little of an appetite he has. He’ll feel worse later if he doesn’t eat now, though, and that fact is the only thing that gets him nibbling on one. 

Raph moving to grab the second sleeve of crackers upsets the entire couch, his weight shifting Mikey and April with him, and it draws a surprised giggle from Mikey. “Oop, sorry,” Raph says as he settles back down, readjusting so Mikey is pressed more comfortably against his side.

Mikey just shakes his head. His skin brushes against Raph’s arm, and he becomes suddenly aware of his bare face. “Where’s my mask?” 

“Uh,” Raph says.

“Oh!” April shifts her weight so she can reach the pocket between herself and Mikey and pulls it out. “I picked it up when you threw it off.”

“I threw it?” He doesn’t remember that either. Mikey tries to ignore the embarrassment that follows.

“You did,” she says. For some reason it’s the easy way with which she says it that manages to assuage some of his shame. She doesn’t seem bothered by it at all. 

April doesn’t make to hand him the mask and Mikey doesn’t immediately reach to take it. Instead he watches as she unravels the tie at the back of it and smooths out the fabric with her fingers. She fiddles with the end tassels for a few moments, thumbing the part which always gets knotted, the fabric there somewhat more worn and crumpled than the rest of it, fibers pulled taut and stretched thin. 

It looks a little dirty now that he’s had a chance to actually see it; there’s a nick in the fabric he hadn’t noticed before and he wonders if it compliments the stinging scratch on his forehead that Raph had cleaned earlier. He’ll have to wash it tomorrow, probably.

When she pulls the whole thing taut between her fingers and lifts it up to him, Mikey blinks blankly at her and then reaches to take it.

April pulls back slightly. “Oop,” she says, “sorry. Is it okay if I tie it on?”

“Ooh,” Mikey says with a nod. He sits up enough for April to easily reach his head and holds still as she carefully positions it over his eyes. Her arm brushes his cheek when she reaches around to tie it and Mikey peers up at her face to find that she’s focused rather intently on the task, her tongue poking out of the side of her mouth.

When at last she draws away, Mikey finds himself smiling. She managed to make the knot just right—likely using the worn sections of fabric as her guide, now that he thinks about it—and it feels comfortable on his face. A piece of him he hadn’t noticed had been unsettled seems to slot back in place and Mikey relaxes back against Raph with a heavy exhale. “Thanks,” he murmurs, and April only hums in response.

Mikey does not want to sleep but the couch is comfortable and the warmth that surrounds him reminds his frayed nerves that he is safe, and so he has drifted into something of a doze before he can register it. It isn’t quite sleep—Raph’s voice rumbles against him and he is aware in a vague way when April responds, and somewhere in the back of his head he knows he shouldn’t fall asleep yet, that he’s still waiting—but Mikey sinks into it comfortably.

He must be on the verge of actually conking out when there is something of a commotion. A voice that isn’t Raph or April speaks from some distance away and Raph stirs enough to jostle Mikey. Mikey blinks open his eyes and blearily searches out the source of the disturbance, somewhat perturbed to have his rest taken from him.

It’s Splinter at the entryway. Some of Mikey’s grogginess recedes as his memories pull themselves from the haze of near-sleep. “Dad?” Mikey asks, sitting more upright and scrubbing at one of his eyes. He resists a yawn and only somewhat succeeds. “Is Donnie okay?” How long has it been? Are they done patching him up?

Splinter does not answer right away and alarm surges through Mikey, spurring him further upright. “He is as well as can be,” Splinter says a little quickly and it does nothing to ease Mikey’s nerves. “Leonardo and I have finished tending to the worst of his wounds.”

Which means that Donnie’s still alive, at least. Now that he’s fully awake, though, Mikey knows he won’t fall asleep until he can see Donnie for himself. He pushes himself to his feet, his thoughts already out the door and on their way to the medbay, but a hand closes around his arm to stop him before he can take more than a single step. Mikey looks back at Raph.

“We’re moving him here,” Raph says, releasing Mikey’s arm. “That’s what we were talkin’ about before you woke. We don’t wanna leave him alone in the medbay, but Dad doesn’t think it’s a good idea ta take him to his room. Harder to keep an eye on him.”

“In here?” Mikey asks, glancing around.

Raph nods and then a little smile creeps onto his face. “I say we take the opportunity to have a sleepover.”

“Fuck yeah,” April says.

“Language,” Raph responds immediately, frowning at April. “There’s a child in the room.”

Mikey opens his mouth to protest—he’s thirteen, not three!—but Splinter interrupts him before he can. “There are _three_ children in here, from where I am standing,” he says sternly. It’s effective in shutting them all up. “I let it go earlier, but that language is not to become habit. Now, get moving. We should set up a place for the Purple one to sleep.” He turns back towards the entrance. “I will go find some blankets.”

April grumbles something under her breath about “not her _real_ dad”, which makes Raph snort, and Mikey’s not entirely sure what’s so funny about it and he doesn’t really have the inclination to take the time to figure it out, so he elects to ignore it. 

“Do you still want my spare hammock?” he asks April. He has no plans on using it—if there’s going to be a turtle pile Mikey has every intention of being squashed right up in the middle of it.

April pauses to think about it. “Nah, thanks though,” she decides finally.

“Turtle pile?” Raph asks.

“Turtle pile,” April replies.

Mikey glances over to make sure that Splinter’s gone. “Fuck yeah,” he says once he’s positive the coast is clear.

Raph shoots April a dirty look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as ever, if you have time and energy to do so, a comment would be very, very appreciated! comments are reinvigorating and provide a good burst of motivation to keep writing. your appreciation is appreciated!!!11 every time i upload i'm going a step further than i've ever gone before when it comes to sharing my work, and it's both daunting and exciting.
> 
> thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> end of note has big rambles. little ramble: wildly dissatisfied with this chapter but i'm posting it anyway because it's too Big to Rewrite and i dont CAAARE (i do care but i've accepted my failure)

Splinter is a man—or rat—of many regrets.

He spent a lifetime running away from his problems—from responsibility, from a broken family, from fighting. He ran from one who wished to use him and then right into the grasp of another who did exactly the same, and then away, away, into the dark and empty sewers of the bright, lively city he once walked the streets of—and now he is here.

Here, in his home, surrounded by a family which he never asked for and which he would never give up for anything. Here, just outside the medbay doors, staring through the foggy green glass at his two sons within. 

Here, facing realities he never before took seriously.

A lifetime of running, returned with a vengeance to remind him that there is no escape from neither fate or destiny, it seems.

A whisper of noise from behind pulls Splinter from his musings. He turns to see Raphael hovering several yards away. Behind and at either side of his bulk lurks April and Michelangelo, and all look at him expectantly. 

“We’re all set up,” Raphael says.

“I found the old futon,” Michelangelo says.

“Lemme see him,” April says.

Splinter is too tired to laugh. He smiles at their eagerness and nods his head towards the medbay doors. “Keep it down,” he warns, and that’s all the permission they need to go clambering around him. Splinter follows behind; he already knows the state he left Purple and Blue in and doesn’t feel the same urgency they probably do.

With a hiss, the medbay doors slide open.

Leonardo looks up as they enter. He’s moved since Splinter left, settled now at Donatello’s head rather than at his side. He’s in the process of removing the catheter for the I.V drip from Donatello’s extended wrist and Raphael makes an uncomfortable little noise at the sight of it.

Leonardo looks exhausted. His expression clears up when he spots them all at the entryway—his mouth twitches automatically into a little smile—but it isn’t enough to wipe the weariness from the droop of his shoulders. 

The others waste no time crowding the exam table as Leonardo finishes wrapping the puncture from the catheter. Splinter remains beside the entryway. 

Against all odds they do succeed at keeping it down, speaking lowly among themselves. Leonardo answers all their questions readily as he can— _”He’s lost a lot of blood but it should be fine,”_ and _”He’ll probably wake up tomorrow,”_ and _”We’ll just have to see how it heals.”_ —but the weariness which lingers around him reminds Splinter to end this sooner rather than later.

He waits until Michelangelo is done suffocating Leonardo with an enthusiastically bone-crushing hug before approaching. “Raphael,” he says, and his children go quiet and look at him. “Will you carry Donatello to the futon? It is time for us to turn in, I believe.”

“On it,” Raphael says. Under Leonardo’s instruction he picks Donatello up, careful to never put more pressure on his shell than is necessary. Splinter leads him out of the room.

—

Splinter is only mildly disgruntled to see his armchair pushed to the side of the room to make way for the ridiculous nest of sheets and comforters dominating the center space. He’s not entirely sure how they manage to find so many blankets.

“Okay, that’s—where the heck did you guys find all these?” Leonardo asks in apparent agreement, and Splinter turns to see him staring blankly at the sheer amount of fabric they’ve scrounged up.

“Mikey insisted,” April replies flatly.

“So, what, Mikey’s will can manifest a ridiculous amount of blankets?”

Michelangelo snickers. “It should.”

“I kinda think it does.” April is practically glued to Raphael’s side as he makes his way over to the futon set up in front of the couch. It’s an old one; Splinter recognizes it from their early years down here, back when they were all small enough to fit on it alongside him.

Raphael is so careful as he lays Donatello atop the futon. Donatello is tall enough that his feet would hang over the edge if he didn’t curl into himself somewhat, and it makes Splinter’s chest ache to see it. They’ve all gotten so big… 

“Oh,” Leonardo says. He’s made his way to the nest already and has collapsed face-first into it. His voice is muffled as he speaks. “Mikey, how do you always manage to build heaven.”

They’re still not big enough to remember to clean up before bed, apparently. Splinter tuts and makes his way over, wrapping his tail around Leo’s ankle and giving him a gentle tug. “Go ready yourself for bed,” he instructs. 

Leonardo turns wide, tired eyes towards him. “I’m so tired,” he whines.

Not old enough to stop whining, too. (And Splinter doesn’t think they’ll ever be old enough for their puppy-dog eyes to stop working on him. He’s had years to steel himself against it—and he’s gotten better!—but sometimes…)

Splinter sighs. “Shower in the morning,” he instructs, and then reaches over to snatch off Leonardo’s bandana. There is no way he’s letting them sleep in their grimy accessories. “You will get changed, though.”

Leonardo groans petulantly, long and put-upon, but then he catches the stern glare Splinter levels at him. That’s all it takes for him to pop up onto his feet—stumbling slightly, favoring his left ankle, something which Splinter will have to check on later when they aren’t all dead on their feet—and he salutes smartly. “On it, pops!” he says, and makes for the exit. He backtracks only long enough to collect his bandana and then he’s gone.

Splinter turns to look at the others, all of whom linger around Donatello’s futon. Just a hint of that stern glare is all it takes for them to go scrambling for the exit. He waits until the last tail disappears behind the corner before allowing himself a small chuckle.

Things go a little quickly after that, in the way that the sleepy whirlwind of bedtime preparation often does. 

When they eventually return, the only ones who bothered to don their pajamas are Leonardo and April. April has a glass of water in hand that she’s actively keeping from Leonardo’s grasp—”Get your own!” she snips with amusement—and Michelangelo trails behind them with weary steps. 

Raphael is the last to return, and he does not go immediately to join the others as they gather the spare blankets and begin setting up their sleeping spots. He lingers at the doorway, looking them all over with a pinched brow.

Somehow, his children always look more vulnerable without their bandanas. Raphael is a giant compared to Splinter, towering well over him with an impressive bulk, but when Splinter looks at him all he can see is the little snapping turtle he used to hold in the palm of his hand.

Splinter approaches, resting a hand against Raphael’s side. He doesn’t say anything.

“This just doesn’t feel real,” Raphael eventually admits. It’s soft enough that the others can’t hear. “Taking out Shredder was so… easy with that collar. It feels like there should’a been more to it.”

Splinter does not admit that he agrees. 

From the stories he had been told, none of what happened quite connects. Shredder was never a mindless animal attacking the nearest stimuli. He was an ancient, corrupt spirit, bent on building the Foot up and taking over all things.

“Perhaps that story has not reached it’s conclusion,” Splinter says eventually. He doesn’t miss how Raphael tenses. “But the chapter has ended. Worrying about it will do nothing for us tonight. We have won this battle, and now it is time to rest.”

“I…” Raphael hesitates, swallowing. Splinter waits. “I should’a noticed Don was hurt. I’m the leader and I didn’t see it. And now he’s…”

_I’m your father and I didn’t see it,_ Splinter does not say. He reaches up and pulls Raphael’s hand into his. “He was focused on the battle and so were you,” he says instead. “Purple recognized that this fight was bigger than one wound. That is not your fault.”

“But he was _hurt,_ dad. If I just—”

“What, read his mind?” Splinter asks wryly. This quiets Raphael. “Your brother was injured, yes, but none of you are without your wounds. That victory may not have been possible without him. We are here now— _he_ is here now, and we can take care of him with the danger behind us. Do not blame yourself for your sibling’s wounds, Raphael.”

Raphael finally looks down at him, and the skin between his browline has not smoothed. Before Splinter can think of another thing to say, however, Raphael just nods. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re right.” 

And then he kneels down on one knee and opens an arm, and Splinter does not hesitate to answer that silent request. He hugs Raphael, gripping tight, and tries not to imagine his sons trapped and helpless under Draxum’s thumb.

Eventually Raphael draws away. He looks reluctant to do so. Nothing else is exchanged between them as Raphael goes to join his siblings. Splinter watches as the others shift to make room for him at the center of the nest and then settle in around him, curled up at his sides. Michelangelo is already halfway to sleep. The rest don’t look too far behind.

Splinter turns off most of the lights when they have all settled down, and then he makes his way over to Donatello’s futon and seats himself at the corner beside his head. Leonardo and April murmur a few things to one another, and then there is the quiet chorus of _good night’s_.

Silence falls.

It does not take long for each of them to fall asleep, unsurprisingly. After their ordeals they are all exhausted, and even Leonardo is out within the first fifteen minutes. Soon it is just Splinter who remains awake.

Without the distraction of his family, his thoughts swirl.

The Shredder is real. The Shredder is—or had been—a threat. The Shredder hurt his family, but that is only due to Splinter’s own inaction.

Splinter aches.

It is in body, yes—he has his own fair share of injuries—but that ache runs deeper still. The ache is for his regrets and for his mistakes. His children—his _children_ —fought Shredder and survived, but barely.

If only he had listened…

Splinter gazes down at Donatello, thumbing his brow to smooth the crease forming there. Donatello’s breathing changes minutely—hitches—and then evens back out.

Had he listened, would he have ever found this family? Had he listened, had he allowed the past to shape his future, would he have ever raised his children? Perhaps this, too, was always meant to be; perhaps they would have found him one way or another. 

It certainly feels that way, he muses as he looks over the piled heap of them. It certainly feels meant to be.

He may never know.

He does know that sitting here and worrying about what has been and what might have never been will do him no good. His family is alive, if not necessarily well. As he told Raphael, it is time to rest. So despite how a part of him yearns to join the pile clustered in the center of the room, Splinter curls upon the futon with Donatello.

No matter what he tells himself or how he reassures himself he still cannot shake the fear which had arisen when Donatello first fell. This, he deems, is as good an attempt as any to ease it; and in some way it succeeds, for all that the lingering scent of blood and antiseptic makes his stomach knot.

It takes a while—too long—for him to find sleep; every sound that deviates from the norm twitches him awake again, every low and unintelligible mumble pushing back the veil of weariness in favor of concern. Incrementally, however, Splinter begins to doze, until eventually he slips into the dark.

—

He does not sleep long.

_Unfortunately,_ he thinks frustratedly as he peels his eyes open. It definitely can’t have been very long—he’s still exhausted for one, and the room’s lighting hasn’t changed much. If it’s daytime on the surface it’s still early enough in the morning to prevent even the barest glimmers of light to sweep the atrium and echo its glow barely through the surrounding tunnels.

What woke him, then? There is a displacement in the room, a shifting to the air; among the familiar soft breathing of his family is an empty space that doesn’t belong. 

Splinter checks Donatello first (and he is not the least bit surprised to find that he’s curled himself around Donatello’s head, all protective instinct), but his son sleeps undisturbed. When he sits upright to check the others, his boys have shifted positions and not much else. It takes a moment for the absence to click.

April is missing.

Splinter’s first instinct is worry but, before it can bloom into something more, his ears twitch when the barest murmur of sound reaches him. He strains to listen only for it to be unnecessary; April’s voice rises slightly in volume, carrying easily to him. She’s speaking with someone although her words are too indistinct to make out. 

Is someone else in the lair? Is she on her phone? From the lack of other voices, Splinter assumes the latter.

He considers, briefly, returning to sleep, but the thought is dashed before it has time to complete itself. He will not leave any child under his charge alone after such an ordeal—and certainly not April, whom he erroneously left behind once already. (Not unless they demand space, of course—April has always made it very clear when she does not appreciate his hovering.)

With all the easy skill of a ninja Splinter slips off the futon and from the room with nary a sound. His muscles protest—his back aches—but Splinter is a master, and it would be criminal to wake anyone else.

The atrium is still dim once he exits the television room, but the darkness is not so absolute as before. The skylight reveals the soft blue-grey of early morning—not yet bright enough to drown itself out with indistinct rays of light—and the shadows are heavy but not thick. He can easily make out April pacing back and forth on the other side of the Atrium, pausing occasionally at the edge which opens up to the center floor below before resuming her restless movement. 

She’s on the phone. Splinter thinks that he can just make out the tinny sound of a voice coming through her receiver. April’s countenance is grim as she listens to whomever—presumably one of her parents—speaks to her from the other end.

“I know,” she says, soft and worn. “I know.”

She lapsed back into silence and the indiscernible murmur—very nearly a buzz—starts back up again. Splinter begins to make his way towards her again, careful not to mask his approach as habit dictates. She spots him as he nears and shoots him a smile but her focus is still clearly directed at her conversation. “Yeah, no. Sunita’s dad is still asleep.”

_You okay?_ Splinter mouths.

April pulls her phone from her ear and taps something on the screen. “Yeah. Parents. Sorry if I woke you.”

Splinter waves off her apology. “Was not you.” He nods to the kitchen. “I will leave you to it.”

April flashes him another smile and taps something on her screen again before returning it to her ear. As Splinter steps around her and away he can hear her saying, “I won’t walk home. Sunita’s dad already promised to give me a ride.”

Splinter can’t help but smile to himself. As fatherly as he feels for April—and as much as she behaves like one of his own children, loud and reckless, an explosion of light and energy in his life—it is comforting to know that she still has her own parents who clearly care so much for her.

By the time April finally joins him in the kitchen Splinter is in the process of buttering up two slices of toast. She makes to grab for the loaf of bread still resting upon the counter but is stopped when Splinter’s tail lightly whacks her hand away.

“Hey,” she mutters as she rubs the back of her hand, but her frown disappears when Splinter offers up his plate. “Aw, no Splints, that’s yours.”

“I made it for you,” he says; behind him, the toaster pops. “And that is for me.” He thrusts the plate into her hands. “Take this before mine get cold.”

April huffs a laugh and turns on her heel to sit at the table. She’s nearly through one slice when Splinter joins her with his own meal and a glass of milk, which he pushes towards her.

April wrinkles her nose at it. _”Blech._ Don’s the one who likes to drink milk. Little weirdo.” The last part is muttered as a quiet aside.

Splinter rolls his eyes. “I cannot keep any of your preferences straight.” More for him, then. He tugs the glass back towards himself.

“Donnie’s the weird one, Raph and I are normal, and the rest are wildcards.”

Splinter recalls not without some mild disgust some of the things he’s witnessed Raphael eat. “Are you sure you wish to group yourself with Red?”

April pauses before shooting him a grossed-out look. “Did I say Raph? I meant Mikey.”

“Mh.” That makes more sense. Splinter is convinced that none of his children—with the exception of Michelangelo—have any true concept of a palette. He takes a bite of toast and washes it back with a sip of milk.

The two eat in relative silence. April finishes her second slice and pushes aside her plate so that she can slump heavily against the table unhindered. She groans long and exhausted until her lungs empty, trailing off into silence.

She has not broached it herself, but… “Parents?” Splinter asks, ears twitching forward.

April turns her face against the table to peer at him. She’s frowning. “Yeah.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, they j—oh, _shi_ —oot! Shoot.” April sits up suddenly, eyes wide.

Splinter tenses. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“What? Yeah, I’m fine, I—uh.” April grimaces. Her shoulders droop a little. “It’s—ugh. It’ll be easier if I just show you.” She yanks her phone from her pocket and jams the home button. Splinter takes another bite of toast as he watches her.

It’s when he’s taking a drink of milk that she turns the screen towards him, and the milk nearly gets sprayed everywhere when he finally registers what he’s looking at. Splinter swallows it down with a tight flurry of coughs. “What!?”

“Yep.”

On her phone is a list of news articles. Tons of them. April thumbs down the displayed page, tiny images of destruction and alarming headlines scrolling slowly by; all of it has to do with the events from the night previous. Splinter skims what he can of the previewed text, his frown growing with every word he reads. 

Her finger accidentally taps the link to one— _Disaster Strikes NYC Port_ —and an article pops open. Gently Splinter pulls the phone from April’s hand, and she acquiesces it.

There is a birds-eye view photo of a shipping terminal which seems to be in a state of clear disarray; entire rows of stacked cargo are destroyed, and sections the floor beneath looks ground to rubble.

_New York Maritime Terminal INC was destroyed in a catastrophic explosion at roughly 2:00 AM this Tuesday morning._

_Following shortly after the unexplained attack and subsequent destruction of Kaufman Coliseum, New York Maritime Terminal INC experienced its own disaster. Much of the port was left in shambles following the destruction of cargo ship USS Desabla._

_Sources claim the ship in question was somehow relocated to the center of the terminal. Images taken at the site show the hull of the ship split in half. The extent of the damage to the cargo is presently unknown._

_There are no known witnesses to the event._

Another photo interrupts the article. It’s a clear image of a massive cargo ship; the camera can’t cover the entire scope of it but it visibly captures the ship’s split hull. It’s a relatively clean slice. The ground around it looks churned up and reduced to dust and debris, likely by the same force which split the ship.

Splinter stares at it. He’s not sure how long he stares at it, absorbing the details until it feels like his eyes glaze over.

He does not finish reading the article. Instead he hands the phone back to April and settles slowly into his seat. 

April peers down at the screen but doesn’t seem to read any of it. She just looks at it. “It’s, uh. My parents heard about it. They’re freaking out and so are a lot of people, I guess. I haven’t looked at most of it but I did click on a few. I haven’t seen anything about you guys, at least.”

That fact alone is, if nothing else, somewhat of a relief. Still… “We will have to lay especially low for a while,” Splinter murmurs. He thinks about Donatello and imagines that it won’t be too difficult for the others to remain at their brother’s side as he mends. 

“Yeah.”

Who knows if it will be enough, though? Destruction on such a large scale… It's one thing that Draxum got himself on live television with hundreds of human witnesses. Add millions of dollars of property damage to the list so soon after? It’s asking for trouble.

One question niggles at the back of Splinter’s mind, however, interrupting the train of thought. “How did the ship end up there?”

“Er. Mikey threw it?”

Splinter blinks at her. Did he hear that right? “What?” he asks and then immediately regrets it.

April opens her mouth but Splinter throws up a hand to stop her. He pinches the bridge of his nose with the other. “No. I will no doubt hear more about this when they wake up. It is too early for this.”

April huffs a mirthless laugh.

Splinter looks at her. Now is not the time to worry about the future; there are much more immediate issues to concern himself with.

“Are you okay?” he asks again.

April opens her mouth—pauses—and then closes it again. Her phone screen goes dark and her eyes flicker back to it. She frowns. “Yeah,” she says finally. “I can’t stick around, though. Mom’s flying back in later tonight. Dad’s coming back tomorrow. I—” she cuts herself off. Her expression twists up with conflicting emotions. “I don’t wanna go. Donnie…”

This feels familiar. Splinter smiles, small but genuine. “Donatello is okay,” he reminds her. “Asleep in the other room still, alongside your brothers.”

“They’re all—” April starts only to break off again, voice tight. Splinter realizes with alarm that she looks like she might cry. April takes a deep, fortifying breath and blinks rapidly, and then she slaps her cheeks with both hands. “They’re okay,” she says firmly. “Donnie’s okay. Everyone’s okay. I’m okay.”

“They are,” he agrees slowly, looking her over. There are bags under her eyes—a bruise along the underside of her jaw, small but ugly—scratches across her knuckles and the palms of her hands. She’s been careful about how she moves her left arm—a pulled muscle, perhaps? Even more, however, is an undercurrent of tension that has not left her since the night previous. She looks tired.

Splinter finds that he can understand.

“It is fine if you aren’t okay,” he says.

April looks at him. He smiles. 

She bursts into tears.

There had been a time, well over a decade ago, when tears made Splinter—Hamato Yoshi—Lou Jitsu—freeze up. He hadn’t a clue how to comfort a crying person. The act of offering a shoulder was nearly alien to him—what should he do? What should he say? Is there a method to these situations?

And then fatherhood had been thrust upon him sudden and unexpected, and Splinter had no choice but to learn quickly.

So it is with the ease of thirteen years of crying children behind him that Splinter hops atop the table and crosses over to April, pulling her into his arms. She falls against him willingly, face buried against his shoulder, and Splinter pays no mind to the snot and tears soaking into his robe. He can always wash it later.

April does not cry long but she does cry hard. She does cry loud, muffling her voice into his shoulder. Splinter holds the back of her head and waits it out with a patience he had to learn on his own. 

Her voice has gone hoarse by the time she pulls away, face blotchy and eyes rimmed red. She scrubs her cheeks hard as Splinter hops away and returns several moments later with some paper towels.

“We do not have tissues nearby,” he apologizes.

“It’s cool,” she says with only the mildest of warbles, accepting the roll and ripping off a piece to blow her nose with. She has to fold it over several times before she finishes, and then she drops it tiredly upon her plate.

Splinter picks up both plates and sets about taking care of them. When he returns to her side April doesn’t look at him; she’s back to staring at her darkened phone screen, thumbing over a little crack which crosses over the lower left corner. “Sorry about that,” she says.

Ah. She’s embarrassed. Splinter can’t help but smile a little at that. “Do you know how many times my sons have come to me to sob into my shoulder? More times than there are years in my life, that is for certain. It’s okay, April. This isn’t even a first.”

April sticks her tongue out at him petulantly. She’s been a friend to them since she was eleven. Of course she’s wept in front of him (and on him) before. Children are not particularly known for reigning in their emotions. 

Splinter chuckles and pats her on the shoulder, which she accepts with a glower that holds no heat and, perhaps, some amusement. 

“I think—” she begins, only to cut herself off again, this time with a long, jaw-cracking yawn. She seems to make an attempt at speaking through the beginning of it but gives up midway through, which succeeds at drawing another laugh from Splinter. 

“Perhaps you should rest a while longer,” he advises. “I doubt your mother will feel much reassured if she finds you dead on your feet.”

April looks like she might argue even as she scrubs at one eye, but then she seems to think better of it. “Yeah, okay. Just for a bit.” She stands and goes to the kitchen sink, switching it on and then cupping her hands beneath the flowing water to drink a few handfuls. 

Splinter frowns. “We do have glasses,” he reminds her. Not that it’s ever mattered, how many glasses they own; his sons do the exact same thing.

“Why use a glass when I have perfectly good hands?” she shots back with a little grin. Rather than use the dishrag hanging right beside her she just dries her hands on her pajama bottoms, and Splinter opts not to say anything about that, if only to get her laying down sooner.

He stays behind just long enough to dump the remainder of his now-warm milk and place that alongside the plates in the dishwasher, and then Splinter follows her out. 

April has settled onto the couch by the time Splinter joins her in the television room. She shimmies around to get comfortable, readjusting the blanket over her feet before finally slumping back against a pillow.

Splinter takes a moment to look over his children. It seems they haven’t stirred much beyond Mikey’s usual shifting about. Donatello is still asleep on his stomach, although now he’s draped an arm over the back of his head. Splinter hums and plods over to the futon, settling down onto the corner once again.

April squints at him. Her glasses rest on the arm of the couch beside her head. “‘Night, Splints,” she says around another yawn. She flaps a hand. “Or morning, or whatever.”

Splinter smiles. “Rest well, April.”

“On it,” she mumbles and then turns over so that her back faces him.

It doesn’t take long for April’s breathing to even out into a rhythm similar to that of the others, slow and deep and quiet. 

It doesn’t take long for Splinter to find himself exactly where he had been not over five hours ago.

He inhales slowly. There is still the faintest whiff of blood and antiseptic in the air; it lingers over Donatello, a constant reminder of Splinter’s failures to him. 

He had smelled blood before, after Donatello first fell. He hadn’t realized that it had come from more than the various little cuts and scratches which littered everyone. The scent of it had been too thick to be only little wounds and, still, he hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t realized. He should have paid more attention.

He exhales silently. 

This, here and now, is not a responsibility Splinter will allow himself to run from. His carelessness injured his family. His lack of preparation brought them to this moment. His decisions endangered not only their lives but also the lives of everyone on the surface; had his children not prevailed, who knows what would have happened? Who could have died?

He takes Donatello’s hand, the one draped across the back of his neck. Donatello’s skin is somewhat rougher than a human’s but only barely. It’s the smoothest of his brothers. Thick calluses adorn his fingertips and palm. He feels cool compared to Splinter’s own natural heat but not alarmingly so; it fits within the range of temperature Splinter has come to associate with Donatello and it is comforting in its own right.

It is something he could have lost last night, Splinter realizes. This familiar coolness is something he could have lost to Shredder.

Would he have ever found them? He wonders again. Are they, too, his destiny? 

The only thing he does know with utmost certainty is that he would give up everything for them again. He would doom the world for them again. Perhaps that says something about him—something about hypocrisy, maybe, for how quick he was to abandon his first family—or maybe it says something about foolishness.

Splinter finds that he does not care what it might say about him because, here and now, seated upon an old, musty futon beside his own child, looking over the rest of his family, he is okay. He is home. They won. As injured and worn as they are, they won.

There are many ways Splinter has failed. He imagines there will be many more ways to come. His decisions have brought them to this—to his children, exhausted and injured—to Donatello, wounded as such that it might scar in more ways than one—but his decisions also brought him to his children. 

He is a man—a rat—of many regrets.

But if there is one thing that Splinter does not regret, it is choosing his sons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! how long has it been since i last uploaded a chapter???? (actively ignores the last upload date so i don't have to think about it) i'm about to ramble a bit so, uh, **TLDR:** adhd makes it hard to write, fixation shifted, lost sight of my goals for this fic but it's fixed now, I'M STILL GONNA FINISH IT, but there is no set update schedule and it'll likely take me months between chapters. 
> 
> so uh. hi. sorry! i do have A Disease Hhhh Disease (or Ass Don't Have Dopamine), which makes it really FREAKIN' difficult for me to actively continue projects once i begin them. it sucks and i'm working on it but i'm also super mega unmedicated and waaaahhh (wails dramatically). ADDITIONALLY, my hyperfixations leap around like my brain is playing hot potato. once i find a new fixation, it's doubly difficult for me to return to my previous one's projects. so i'm having a time!
> 
> ON TOP OF ALL OF THIS, i got stuck when i hit the roadblock of Wow I Have No Idea What I Want From This Fic. i eventually figured it out (sorta) while talking it out with my friend, lem, but it took a while for everything to settle. i'm still a little uncertain and losing the glow of fixation makes it harder to ignore that glaring issue, but no matter! i will power through this. i can do it!!!!1
> 
> also here's a ramble i wrote MONTHS ago that i need to share because it's still actively killing me inside:
> 
> did you know that there actually IS an elevator/pulley system in the lair? i know this because of one single screenshot i took during the, uhh. the skateboarding episode, when leo was trying the, er. the fourteen-forty? is that what it was? there's an aerial shot and something in the background that looks distinctly like a jury-rigged elevator/pulley, which would have solved the issue regarding getting to the medbay on the upper levels. i discovered that, like, four days after uploading the second chapter, and i almost deleted the entire fic right then and there because i was like "NOOOOO I GOT MY LAIR INFORMATION WROOOOOONG."
> 
> honest to god i should have just included one even without any evidence of one because it _makes sense._ you can't always depend on sick ninja skills, and you can't tell me these boys didn't get leg/knee/ankle injuries growing up that made getting around without a pulley impossible!!!
> 
> so now i suffer. i sit here, and i suffer, and i hope no one is too bothered by my (many, many) mistakes and my nonsensical lair layout. sacrifices must be made in order to be self-indulgent, i suppose.
> 
> ANYHOW. thank you so so much for both your time and your patience. as stated previously, there's probably going to be months between chapter updates. i am still as determined as ever to complete this fic (and i am saying this for myself as much as i am saying it for you) but i have to proceed with awareness of my own limitations and abilities. trying to force it out of me won't work, so i'm trying something different.
> 
> thank you again!!! i hope you enjoyed this chapter and i wish you a lovely week.


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